That Kind of Woman by Paula Reed Page A

never wanted it.”
    “Jesus, man. This isn’t your doing. I’ll take care of things. Everything. Even your damned roses.” He felt his throat close and his eyes burn.
    George laughed quietly. “Well, that’s good to know. Especially about the roses.”
    “What can I do?”
    “There are records in the library. I have them all in order—”
    “Let’s not talk about that.”
    George placed a frail yellowed hand on top of Andrew’s robust brown one. “I don’t know how much time I have, and you need to know all of this.”
    Andrew nodded. They had responsibilities, both of them. All the grief in the world didn’t erase that fact. For the next half-hour they spoke of accounts and crops and estate business.
    “I should let you rest,” Andrew said at last, rising from the chair at the side of his brother’s bed. “Besides, I need to see how Emma and the others are settling in.”
    “Wait!” George cried softly. “Don’t go. I haven’t said what I really need to say to you.”
    There was a frantic quality in George’s voice, and something wound up tightly inside of Andrew. It was that same brief, contemptible impulse to flee that would grip him in the minutes before a battle, just before he gave orders to advance. He had never succumbed, but he hated the fact that he felt it at all.
    “There’s plenty of time, George. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
    George shook his head. “You don’t know how hard it is to hang on. I’m tired, Andy.”
    “I know. Rest. I’ll come back in the morning.”
    George reached out and grabbed at him weakly. “No, I am more tired than that. More tired than the kind of sleep you wake from will ease.”
    “George—”
    “And I hurt. Sometimes I feel like I’m turning inside out.”
    Against his will, moisture gathered in Andrew’s eyes, and he sat again. “I’m sorry, George. I wish I knew what to do for you.”
    “Promise me that you’ll take care of Randa.”
    Andrew sucked in his breath. “Of course I will. She’ll never want for anything.”
    “Not just money,” George continued. “She needs a family.”
    “She has a family,” Andrew replied, a bit too sharply. He quickly softened his tone. “We’ll all keep in touch with her, and surely her parents will look after her, too. She’s young, George. In time, she’ll pick up the pieces.”
    “Like you did, when you lost Caroline?”
    Andrew’s face hardened. “That’s different. I’ve been at war. She’ll return to London, I imagine. The Duke of Montheath and his … well, Miranda’s mother … they’ll be glad to have her home with them.”
    George seemed to find some reserve of energy inside of him, and it gave his voice strength. “Randa hates London! If it’s awkward for you to speak of it, imagine how it is for her to live with it among those sanctimonious prigs. Let her stay here, Andy.”
    Raking his hands through his hair and mussing its fastidious grooming, Andrew protested. “Truly George, I want what’s best for her, but I’m a widower and she’ll be a—a—”
    “You can say it, Andy. I am well aware that I am dying. She will be a widow.”
    Through clenched teeth, Andrew repeated, “And she will be a widow. The gossips will tear us to shreds.”
    “As if that would matter out here in the country. Lettie can stay on as chaperone. She’s no good for Henry in London, bailing him out of every scrape, paying off his wagers.”
    “I’ll grant you that, but Lettie will never let him off the leading strings. And what of Miranda? Surely she would be happier with a family of her own someday. She’ll never find another husband all the way out here.”
    “You’ve been writing each other.” George’s voice was barely audible, but it was heavy with the weight of certain knowledge.
    “She is like a sister! She wrote as a sister would, and I as a brother.”
    “You’re fond of her.”
    Andrew bolted from the chair again and began to pace. “Of course I am.